Four Weeks With One, Two, Three
by schnook
Summary: Mori was practical. What better place to have found her then, than in the sunshine?  Both denied glancing over their shoulders . One-shot.


**Title: Four Weeks With One, Two, Three**

**Anime: OHSHC**

**Pairing: Mori/OC**

**Warning: (?) Uh, me wishing my life was fiction. Pretty much.**

**-x-x-x-**

"_**Falling in love could be achieved in a single word: a **_**glance**_**"**_

**-x-x-x-**

When he first sees her, he hasn't really seen her at all.

Because amongst the swirling of yellow dresses, fragrant and fine as musical voices chime in excitement (the only place in the world where the women still sip daintily and the men bend down at the waist – but only from 3:30pm to 5pm) she's there, amongst the fine china and fine smiles, but he doesn't see her – not because she's too loud or too quiet or too pretty or too plain – he simply doesn't see her in the commotion.

There's too much yellow; too many squeals and faints and laughter and perfume and hair (long, short, straight, curly, waved, dark, light – oh, the _delight!_) and legs and arms and _girls_ floating around to think of anything in particular, for either party. After a while they become one cluster of baby yellow; moving in unison and eating in unison and drinking in unison. Not that he's not bothered by it. Not really. He's always been somewhat amazed at the female gender - that elusive breed that fawns over the oddest things - and finds every odd quirk, every unusual detail that separates the _hims_ from the _hers _a victory.

Because he likes victories – always had, always will.

So when he first sees her, he hasn't really seen her – it's Tuesday afternoon at the Club they design for Hosting, a whirl of sound, sight, feel, taste and smell – and she's there too, and at that moment, they're nothing but a random figure to each other, blurring in with the others. They wouldn't recongnise each other if they passed in the echoing halls. Wouldn't look back if one stubbed a toe. Wouldn't.

But for some reason, that first time still counts.

It's still _'the first time he sees her,' _because it's the first time she's there in the room with him.

And everything like that counts when you're looking back at it all and wondering.

_(Remember when...?)_

_(I didn't know...)_

_(You were there.)_

_(Are you sure?)_

**-x-x-x-**

The second time he sees her, it's not between the infamous hours of 3:30pm to 5pm.

Which is nice, he'll later think.

Those hours seem separate from reality. 3:30-5:00. The curve of the numbers seem fitting – topsy-turvy and swirling like they are; mascots for the dream-time they hold. He has a(n alleged) family during those hours; a mother and a father and a brother and cousins. It's a hunk of the day carved out of his life and parachuted to somewhere else – somewhere, undoubtedly, better than here.

It was all for the better, though (cried the ignorant) – for some reason she couldn't exist in those hours. She's was too real – too firm, too penetrating a presence to be denied her fair share of existence.

When he saw those charming boys, and that endless, happy flock of baby yellow, he saw the present; the youthful, the captivating, the glory of the one-dimensional present and all its marvellous simplicity.

When he saw her, he saw his future, and all the hate, love, fear, fever, lies, war, pain, happiness, hope, death and victory that came with it. A package deal: one he couldn't live without, really.

What it all comes down to, though, was that he had found her in the sunshine.

Which was nice, he thought.

The light had dappled the lawns, the time of day when it's too early to hope, too late to fear. It had cooled down considerably, but the sun had shone in all its persistence, determined to make a mark on the green, green lawns of Ouran Academy. It was busy on the lawns; late morning as students nibbled (girls) and devoured (boys) their food, but that green-green grass shone through the swarm of baby yellow dresses, and for that moment, to him, each one was separately unique (and he felt he had done something good for them that day, after all).

She saw him and he felt her, and by-and-by, mankind's oldest miracle occurred. But it didn't really. (He only likes to think so, looking back).

They spoke briefly – he had accidentally taken her books in the previous class, which left his own with her – and they swapped them back just as quickly. The smiles were quick, embarrassed, slightly in awe, and above all, sincere.

And they departed.

(Both will deny glancing over their shoulders).

**-x-x-x-**

The third time he saw her was his favourite, because it was after the second and before the fourth.

(Mori will never deny being a simple person. Simplicity is hard to find these days, after all).

A few weeks after swapping books (and glances) he found her after school, waiting by the school gates, leaning against the iron, bag slumping dejectedly by her feet.

And when you find something, you make sure never to lose it again.

It's the moment of conflict. It's the future or the present. It's victory or defeat. It's hello or goodbye. He takes pleasure in these quick, impulse of the moment decisions – there are no grey areas, no excuses and no wasted words (oh, how he hates wasted words). So he chooses.

But even warriors fear sometimes.

He walks determinedly past her, making sure his strides are long, measured, confident and sure. Eyes forward, never straying, brow slightly furrowed under the weight of the world – he wants to look like a man like he's going somewhere. He wants her to see this – that he's a man going places – and realising this makes him want to bolt.

Yet he walks.

And even as he does it, he despises his cowardice, and that ever-present, ever-quick self-loathing is ready to swoop down on him and claw at his scalp till he is certain he has reminded Mitsukuni to brush his teeth. The Cowardly Warrior. It almost has a ring to it.

He walks.

Like every man before him, every man with him and every man after him. Because he is just that – only a man. He walks. He walks back to his childhood, walks on the lonely path from man to boy. But he should know; no man escapes his future.

"You."

He stops less gracefully than he has been taught, but the passing thought pales under the sudden need he feels to turn around, shake her hand, and tell her he could not have chosen a better word for her to speak at that moment himself.

"Me?" He needs to be sure, he needs to be certain the he is what she defines as 'you.' He needs to be sure the young man who goes by the name of Mori is indeed who this 'you' is referring to. For some reason he hopes it is. For some reason.

She laughs, a small laugh that she seems reluctant to disperse into the air, but he's grateful. She twists her mouth slightly, as if debating the colour of the sky, and speaks to him in that slow, leisurely manner that he is starting to identify with her specifically already.

"I suppose you'll do," she smiles kindly, and this, too, she seems surprised to be giving to him. "Your small friend was looking for you earlier."

"Mitsukuni?" He asks automatically, before realising this probably means nothing to her. He offers a shrug as some form of apology.

"Blonde? Excitable?" There's a shadow of a memory on her lips, and it curves upward a little.

He can only share her smile, offering an "ah" as an apology, a thanks, and a promise.

They stand together for a little while, waiting in impasse.

(Both will deny waiting for something to happen – anything to happen).

But time has only so much an allotment for every person, and they eventually part ways with a nod of the head.

(Both will deny any tiny, niggling feelings of disappointment).

**-x-x-x-**

He keeps expecting her to turn up – in his classes, down the halls, past the corner, on the lawn, by the drinking fountain.

She doesn't.

He isn't looking for her though, not quite. It's only a second take at the girl walking past, or a glance over his shoulder at the familiar, worn school bag. He doesn't think of her all the time (she's only sitting complacently in the back of his mind, humming idly to herself as she lets his other thoughts cut in line ahead of her, smiling her not-quite-there smile as she waits).

Every now and again, though, there's a small, half-panic. A skipped heart-beat. A mini crises inside his ever calm, ever collected presence – like he has lost something he never got to claim. Like waking from a dream, fearing you have lost something terrible, something irreplaceable, only to look about you and know for sure you don't literally own any such thing.

You don't own it. But you could. And that's the worst knowledge anyone can possess.

The days drag on, and the Host Club is ever same – ever changing, transforming, utterly unpredictable in a way that has become tediously predictable. He loves it, though. He has always enjoyed the complacency of knowing he fits into this close-knit group of people, all sharing a common goal, a common purpose. He has learned to accept the admiration he receives from the young, willing ladies of Ouran. He's happy in this routine. Between 3:30-5:00.

Everywhere else, though, he's looking.

**-x-x-x-**

When he finds her again, finally, he almost wishes she had stayed hidden.

_Almost._

"Takashi," she says, and it's just as good as hearing 'you.'

"Ah?"

He can feel it.

The future.

"I feel I must introduce myself properly."

Now, though, he's armed and ready for it.

(Both will deny stowing away to an abandoned closet the very same day).

(It happened on their sixth meeting, after all).

**-x-x-x-**

**Mori would be my second favourite. For good reason, too (ie. Gorgeousality).**

**'She' is an OC (though I don't really like the things those two letters bring up in the mind) – just to clear it up. It's not Haruhi, or anyone. Just so you know. **

**Favourites appreciated, subscribes bring shameless honour, reviews send me into pure bliss (anything else I cut out and scrapbook)**

**x Schnook**

**Note: The opening line is one of my favourite quotes from Ian McEwan's book 'Atonement'**

**Highly recommended.**


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